There would be no smithing today. The sound of hammers gave a rhythm to Ogi’s life, and he hated breaking his routine. He knew exactly where he was supposed to be and what he was supposed to be doing at any time during the day. The sun was a pendulum that swung above, and when it appeared between the buildings and shone through the gaps of his workshop’s roof, he knew what was expected of him.

Now he saw it peaking between two houses, but he wasn’t in the workshop. He was packing food and saddling his horse. He hated to leave the sun alone, but destiny had to be forged today. Swords and tools could wait.

Ogi was ready long before the sky became the color of fire. Just as the streets around were getting less crowded and the craftsmen were heading to the inn to fuel their minds with a drink, a set of knuckles knocked on his door. Just by the dull sound, he knew it wasn’t a client.

“I’m here, I’m here.” - Ogi rushed out and pushed Dreamer against the man’s chest. It was in a scabbard with a couple of collars so it could be tied to a saddle. The blacksmith then untied his mare, who was already saddled, and pulled her down the street.

“Got everything you need?” - Ogi asked.

“Now I do.” - the man said and patted the sword.

The city’s song was getting a hint of cheerfulness. The huffing of tired men and the stomping of busy feet gave way to the melody of a flute and laughter in the inns. The stones were cooler, and dust had settled on the ground as if the city needed rest itself. A single blacksmith was still hammering a blade and cursing it in the process.

“Svarog, glory to you, I need to make this sword right, or I’ll lose my head.” - the lone blacksmith said, looking up at the clouds.

“Pray less and heat it up more.” - Ogi said as they were passing him - “What are you making, a sword or a club? It’s not hot enough. Wait until it’s dark orange before you start hammering it.”

Children ran around them barefoot, fresh wounds on their knees. A warrior’s orphans and another’s bastards shared the same fate. They reached their hands out to the merchants and villagers passing by, and occasionally someone put something in it. Every now and then, they pulled their hands back to find a piece of garbage in it and heard a stranger’s laughter as he walked away. They tossed it on the ground and continued walking through the river of men with their palms up, feeling every pebble and rock under their bare feet. But the pain of hunger is worse than the pain of stepping on broken glass.

At the gates, they brushed against the last farmers who were coming home from the fields.

“We’re shutting the gates until morning.” - a guard told them.

“We won’t be coming back soon.” - Jassen replied.

They were already on their horses when they heard the city gates getting shut and barred behind them.